Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“‘No.’

“‘Why not?’

“‘Father wouldn’t let him. He’d take him away, or do something to him.’

“Norman looked dismal.

“‘But where does he live?’

“‘He lives up to the factory.’

“‘But you can’t have him in the factory.’

“‘Yes, I have him,’ said Norman, ‘because Mr. Carroll said he was to come in, because he was so handsome.’

“‘But he’ll get killed in the machinery, Norman, and then you would be very sorry.’

“‘No, he won’t get killed; he takes care: he knows he mustn’t go near the ’chinery, and he doesn’t; he just comes and lies down where I be.’

“‘And does Mr. Swift let him?’

“‘He has to, ’cause Mr. Carroll said he was to.’

“‘But your money—where does it come from, Norman?’

“‘Mr. Swift,’ said Norman, very dismally.

“‘Then doesn’t your mother miss it, when you carry home your wages to her?’

“‘No.’

“‘She must, my child.’

“‘She don’t, ’cause I carry her just the same I did before.’

“‘How can you, and keep out a ha’penny a-day?’

“‘’Cause I get more now—I used to have fourpence ha’penny, and now they give me fi’pence.’

“And Norman burst into a terrible fit of crying, as if his secret was out, and it was all up with him and his dog too.

“‘Give me the milk and let me go!’ he exclaimed through his tears. ‘Poor Curly!—poor Curly!’

“‘Here ’tis,’ said Silky, very kindly. ‘Don’t cry—I’m not going to hurt you or Curly either. Won’t he eat anything but milk?—won’t he eat meat?’

“‘No—he can’t—’

“‘Why can’t he?’

“‘He don’t like it.’

“‘Well; you run off to the factory now and give Curly his milk; and stop again to-morrow.’

“‘And won’t you tell?’ said Norman, looking up.

“‘I shall not tell anybody that will get you into trouble. Run, now!’

“He dried his tears, and ran, fast enough, holding the little brown jug carefully at half-arm’s length, and his bare feet pattering over the ground as fast as his short legs could make them.

“Silky stood looking gravely after him.

“‘I’m so sorry for him, mother!’ she said. ‘This won’t do; it’s very wrong, and he’ll get himself into dreadful trouble besides.’

“‘Poor fellow!—we’ll see, honey;—we’ll try what we can do,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“The next morning Norman came again, and Mrs. Meadow was there.

“‘How is Long-Ears, Norman? and how are you?’ she said cheerfully. But she did everything cheerfully.

“‘He’s well,’ said Norman, looking a little doubtfully at these civilities.

“‘And you are not well?’ said Mrs. Meadow, kindly. ‘Suppose you come and see me to-morrow?—it’s Sunday, you know, and you have no work—will you? Come bright and early, and we’ll have a nice breakfast, and you shall go to church with me, if you like.’

“Norman shook his head. ‘Curly’ll want to see me,’ he said.

“‘Well, about that just as you like. Come here to breakfast—that you can do. Mother’ll let you.’

“‘Yes, she’ll let me,’ said Norman, ‘and I can go to see Long-Ears afterwards. You won’t tell?’ he added, with a glance of some fear.

“‘Tell what?’

“‘About him,’ said Norman, nodding his head in the direction of the factory.

“‘Long-Ears?—Not I! not a word.’

“So he set off, with a gleam of pleasure lighting up his little face, and making his feet patter more quick over the ground.

“‘Poor little creature!’ Mrs. Meadow said again, most heartily, and this time the tear was standing in her eye.

“The next morning it rained,—steadily, constantly, straight up and down. But at the usual time Mrs. Meadow and Silky were getting breakfast.

“‘It does come down!’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I’m so sorry, mother,’ said Silky; ‘he won’t come.’

“She had hardly turned her back to see to something at the fire, when there he was behind her, standing in the middle of the floor; in no Sunday dress, but in his everyday rags, and those wet through and dripping. How glad and how sorry both mother and daughter looked! They brought him to the fire and wiped his feet, and wrung the water from his clothes as well as they could: but they didn’t know what to do; for the fire would not have dried him in all the day; and sit down to breakfast dry, with him soaking wet at her side, Mrs. Meadow could not. What to put on him was the trouble; she had no children’s clothes at all in the house. But she managed. She stripped off his rags, and tacked two or three towels about him; and then over them wound a large old shawl, in some mysterious way, fastening it over the shoulders: in such a manner that it fell round him like a loose straight frock, leaving his arms quite free. Then, when his jacket and trowsers had been put to dry, they sat down to breakfast.

“In his odd shawl wrapper, dry and warm, little Norman enjoyed himself, and liked very much his cup of weak coffee, and bread and butter, and the nice egg which Mrs. Meadow boiled for him. But he did not eat like a child whose appetite knew what to do with good things; he was soon done; though after it his face looked brighter and cheerier than it ever had done before in that house.